


Olympic Tryouts (part 13)

by jennamacaroni



Series: Olympic Tryouts [13]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2002356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennamacaroni/pseuds/jennamacaroni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana and Brittany have been rivals in the college hockey world for the past four years.  now they’re both at Olympic tryouts to play on the same team and Boston and Minnesota just don’t get along, okay?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Olympic Tryouts (part 13)

**Author's Note:**

> it has been absolutely forever, i’m sorry guys. thanks for being patient. hopefully it will never be that long between parts but shit happens, ya know? and the world cup happened which pretty much consumed all my time.
> 
> you are all special snowflakes. thank you for reading this.

Santana feels something bounce softly off her temple in the middle of watching Finland captain Ella Linna deking through the Swedish defense like it was Swiss cheese. She startles immediately, her shoulders jumping up and her muscles seizing. She turns sharply towards the trajectory of the catapulted Lucky Charm marshmallow, a rainbow, and finds the offender popping a red balloon into her open mouth and smirking. Santana pulls out an earbud and narrows her eyes across the room.

“I really do have incredible aim from this distance,” Brittany brags, sprawled out on her bed and looking down into the bag to pick out another marshmallow. A pot of gold.

“Watcha doing?” Brittany asks, nodding in Santana’s direction.

“Watching Finland skate all over the Swedes,” she answers, eying Brittany as she pushes every piece of frosted oat cereal back into the box with a pointed index finger, leaving only marshmallows behind in her palm.

“You’re seriously watching film right now? The game is not for another week, you freak.” Brittany’s tone borders on mildly offended that Santana would choose to spend her hungover Saturday hockey-free weekend time watching and thinking about hockey. “I figured you’d say like, Orange is the New Black or something.”

Santana draws her lips into a tight line and shrugs, feeling her cheeks pinking. “There’s a lot of film to watch before next Friday,” she mumbles, reaching for the earbud and turning back to her laptop.

“Can I watch with you?” Brittany asks quickly.

Santana gulps and nods, pulling out the headphones and throwing them on her side table as Brittany swings her legs off the bed and ambles the few steps to cross the room, pulling back the corner of Santana’s covers and climbing in the bed next to her.

Santana curses sharply under her breath when she feels Brittany’s bare lower leg press into her own and realizes she’s not wearing any pants. She swallows dryly again.

“So what game is this?” Brittany asks, settling into the mattress and reaching back into the cereal box.

“World Championship quarterfinals last year, Sweden and Finland,” Santana manages, clicking the play button. The game springs back to life with the Finnish attacker slapping a shot on net that is blocked away to the sideboards by the Swedish goaltender.

“That’s…” Santana points to the player with the puck.

“Ella Linna. I know, butthead,” Brittany interrupts pointedly. “You’re not the only one who studies. I bet you didn’t now Linna was Finnish for ‘castle’ now, did ya, smarty pants?”

“Who would know that?”

“My dad has a thing for Scandinavian family names,” Brittany shrugs, her eyes trailing after the puck on the computer screen as Santana glances sidelong in her direction, shaking her head incredulously.

“Want some?” Brittany tilts the open cereal box in Santana’s direction.

“Sure,” she answers, grabbing a handful. “And I won’t pick the marshmallows out.”

“Whatever. Everyone knows they’re the best part and pretty much the only reason why anyone buys the cereal.”

Santana hates that Brittany is always right.

They’re quiet for a few minutes as they continue watching the game film, Brittany continuing to crunch on dehydrated marshmallows and Santana trying to focus on the screen and not the tingling sensation radiating up the left side of her body where it’s pressed against Brittany. At least she’s not wearing superhero underwear this time.

“Ooh, pay attention, they’re about to score here,” Brittany blurts, her elbow nudging Santana in the ribs and out of her daydreaming.

Sure enough the Swedish winger shuffles the puck along the boards, gathers it and slings a sharp pass to the point where the defender is ready to slap it into the back of the net. Santana’s mouth hangs open in confusion as she turns to meet a grinning Brittany.

“You’re not the only one who studies, butthead.”

“Fuck you,” Santana grumbles, swatting at Brittany’s arm before turning back to the computer.

_____

Brittany falls asleep midway through the third period, Santana only noticing when Brittany’s breaths become heavy and audible, the air pulling in through her slightly open mouth in deep rushes.

Santana shuts the laptop gently and closes her own eyes, leaning back into the pillow to chase sleep.

_____

She wakes up two hours later slightly disoriented at the time of day as the afternoon sun reaches between the closed slats of the blinds, basking the room in a warm yellow glow. Santana is alone and notices Brittany’s running shoes are no longer by the door as she makes her way out and across the hall to the bathroom.

She finds Quinn in a towel and leaning over a sink with her face close to the mirror, squinting at her reflection as she tweezes some stray eyebrow hairs.

“Ah, Sleeping Beauty awakens,” Quinn teases, her eyes meeting Santana’s through the mirror.

“How did you know I was asleep, creeper?”

“I saw Pierce leaving for a run on my way in here,” Quinn answers dismissively, nodding her toweled head towards the showers. “Pee and then you are coming with me, Lopez.” Quinn is using her bossy voice and Santana knows there’s no use arguing.

The second she tosses the damp paper towel into the wastebasket by the door after washing her hands, Quinn latches onto Santana’s upper arm and drags her out the swinging door and down the hallway to her own room.

Quinn’s roommate, Jamie, isn’t around, which Santana thinks is oh-so-convenient for Quinn’s imminent interrogation.

Santana is freed from Quinn’s clutches as they cross over the threshold and rubs her upper arm briskly before climbing onto Quinn’s ruffled bed and falling onto it in a heap.

“Spill.” Quinn’s hand is firm on her cocked hip as she holds eye contact, her eyebrows pulled up nearly into her hairline.

“…spill what?” Santana asks, as innocent as possible.

“Don’t you fucking play with me right now. Don’t think I don’t remember a certain tall blonde nemesis looking mighty friendly with you last night. And this whole past week, if we’re talking straight here.”

“I wouldn’t exactly use the word straight, Q,” Santana deadpans, the corner of her lip tugging up slightly at the corner as she tries in vain to hide a grin. Quinn only grumbles in frustration, motioning with her hand for Santana to continue.

“I don’t know, we just click,” Santana answers, lamely. “It’s easy whenever I’m around her and I like it. Turns out she’s not as bad as we thought.”

Quinn tugs her bottom lip between her teeth and squints at Santana skeptically, as if trying to decide if she is holding back something juicy.

“And did anything happen last night? We were all pretty wasted, and we both know when there’s Fireball involved, Lopez gets handsy.” Quinn twitches her fingers in Santana’s direction before turning to rifle through her closet. Santana ducks as a stray sneaker flies through the air in her direction, hitting the wall beside her head with a thud and dropping to the floor.

“Come on, Quinn. This is the Olympic team, I’m not going to go screwing it up by getting involved with a teammate. We know from experience that never ends well… cough cough Charley,” Santana accuses, fake-coughing into a closed fist.

“You had to bring that up, didn’t you? And stop evading. You seem even more love-struck than usual, and that’s saying something.” Quinn meets Santana’s scowl through the mirror as she drags a brush through the wet tangles in her hair.

“I am not lovestruck,” Santana argues unconvincingly, picking up the headband on the nightstand and pulling it into cat’s cradle between her fingers. “She challenges me. It’s attractive.”

“Mmhmm.” Bossy Quinn has morphed into Know-it-All Quinn. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that she’s tall, blonde and gorgeous. AKA exactly your type.”

Santana can’t help but grin. “It certainly doesn’t hurt. But seriously Q, this can’t happen. Not with the games just about a half year out. This is our shot and not even smokin’ hot Brittany Pierce will get in the way of that.”

“You got that right,” Quinn banters back, crossing the room to give Santana a hearty high five. “But for the record, I’ve got a crisp twenty dollar bill coming my way from Berry when someone walks in on you two banging in the locker room shower.”

Santana chokes on her own sharp intake of breath and sputters comically.

“Maybe I’ll buy you a drink with my winnings,” Quinn teases, shoving Santana hard in the shoulder before turning back towards her vanity and just out of the reach of Santana’s swinging fist.

_____

The team spends their Saturday night in the dorm basement sprawled across rows of couches watching Angels in the Outfield on the large projector and munching on popcorn and candy.

Brittany lies on the couch directly next to Santana’s, both of them leaning on adjacent furniture arms that are pushed together. Santana is painfully aware of the inch of space between them, her eyes flicking towards Brittany every so often, sometimes catching her popping a Dot into her mouth and wondering what the fruity candy would taste like on her tongue.

 _This cannot happen_ , Santana tells herself, but when Brittany catches her staring and grins wickedly while turning back to the movie, Santana’s willpower falters just a little bit more.


End file.
